By Sarah Dickenson Snyder
I have always seen time
as a circle, a calendar pulling
the last month back to the first.
The circles shrink and tighten,
how I see babies being born
on the horizon of a widening
turn and me, sliding
into smaller rings,
the time it takes to orbit
quickening as we age.
Maybe we move toward stillness,
the last spin more like an end mark,
a small dot I might be able to lift,
find what’s buried there.
Maybe death means uncovering
a bowl of what we were
always hungry for, maybe
I’ll find I wanted less.
Sarah Dickenson Snyder has three poetry collections, The Human Contract, Notes from a Nomad (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2018), and With a Polaroid Camera. She has been nominated for Best of Net, was the Poetry Prize winner of Art on the Trails 2020, and a Finalist for Iron Horse National Poetry Month Award. Recent work has appeared in Rattle and RHINO. She lives in the hills of Vermont. sarahdickensonsnyder.com